“Bet ye don’t know who I be?”

“I’d ‘a’ know’d you in Chiny.  You’re Mort Whittaker’s wife—­her that was Ida Janes.  Hair hain’t so red as what it was.”

“You’ve took on flesh some, but otherwise—­’Member the time you took me to the dance at Tupper Falls—­”

“An’ we got mired crossin’—­”

“An’ Sam Kettleman come in a plug hat.”

This conversation, or its counterpart, was repeated wherever resident and visitor met.  Old days lived again.  Ancient men became middle-aged, and middle-aged women became girls.  The past was brought to life and lived again.  Sometimes it was brought to life a bit tediously, as when old Jethro Hammond, postmaster of Coldriver twenty years ago, made a speech seventy minutes long, which consisted in naming and locating every house that existed in his day, and describing with minute detail who lived in it and what part they played in the affairs of the community.  But the audience forgave him, because it knew what a good time he was having....  Houses were invaded by perfect strangers who insisted in pointing out the rooms in which they were born and in which they had been married, and in telling the present proprietors how fortunate they were to live in dwellings thus blessed.

The band arrived and met with universal satisfaction, though Lafe Atwell complained that he hadn’t ever see a snare drummer with whiskers.  But their coats were red, with gorgeous frogs, and their trousers were sky blue, with gold stripes, and the drum major could whirl his baton in a manner every boy in town would be imitating with the handle of the ancestral broom for months to come....  Through it all Scattergood Baines sat on the piazza and beamed upon the world, and rejoiced in the goodness thereof.

Only one resident took no part in the holiday making, and that was Old Man Newton, who had closed his house, drawn the blinds, and refused to make himself visible while the celebration lasted.  He took a savage pleasure in thus making himself conspicuous, knowing well how his conduct would be discussed, and viewing himself as a righteous man suffering for the sins of another.

In the darkness of the evening street Mattie Strong accosted Scattergood that evening, clinging to his arm tremulously.

“Mr. Baines,” she whispered, affrightedly, “he’s come!”

“Who’s come?”

“Mavin Newton—­he’s here, in town.”

Scattergood frowned.  “See him?”

“Hain’t seen him, but he’s here.  I kin feel him.  I knowed it the minute he come.”

“Calc’late I’ve seen everybody here, and I hain’t seen him.”

“He’s here, jest the same.  I’m a-lookin’ fer him.  Whatever name he come under, or however he looks, I’ll know him.  I couldn’t make no mistake about Mavin.”

“Mattie, I hope ’tain’t so....  I hope you’re mistook.”

“I—­I don’t know whether I hope so or not.  I—­Oh, Mr. Baines, I’d rather be with him, a-comfortin’ him and standin’ by him, no matter what he done—­”